Pure Purpose
by MeddyGrey
Summary: Darien's life seems to be crumbling before his eyes, while things are Business Unususal at the Agency when another clandestine group teams up with them against a common enemy.
1. Intro

Timeline: After "Mere Mortals", and we make our divergence right before "Possessed". Gonna move on in the vein that the show was progressing in, since it seems to be going along with my original idea from a few weeks back. 

Notes: I'm creating my own divergance from the IM cannon, and I do hope to continue with this to make a series (Yeah, I'm being ambitious...). I suppose I need to have my Fawkes even if the series is completely scrapped. (Curse you, Scifi!!!!) This is my first IM fanfiction, but by no means my first fanfiction. You can check out my stuff on my website (http://www.geocities.com/fatjaxfatjax) if you decide that you kinda like my writing or you're just nosey.

Disclaimer: I don't own Darien (dangit) or the rest of the I-Man universe; I'm just having some fun with 'em. Any new characters, however, are property of me, Medina, and I highly doubt that anyone'll want to steal my original characters, but I thought that it would sound cool to claim ownership. And without further ado, the fic...

__

_Pure Purpose_

An _Invisible Man_ fanfiction  
Written By Medina

Intro

I think it was E. M. Forster who said, "We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us." Now, I can bet you with sure winning odds that my life today is not what I had planned for myself just two years ago. Granted, the plans that I had weren't the most well thought-out, or plausible, usually having something to do with owning my own caribbean island after I finally made that 'big score' that watching "Ocean's 11' too many times had quite possibly influenced. Oh, and there was always a blond in a skimpy white bathing suit; can't forget that.   


As they say in the movie business, I've ended up with the "reworked" version of my scripted future. For example, there is actually a blond, and there is a part of my life that's like a plot. However, the blond prefers a white lab coat to a skimpy swimsuit, and as charming and beautiful as she is, is more interested in sticking needles in my body than frolicking on a Caribbean beach with me. The movie plot? That could either be my partner, Bobby Hobbes, who would have been an excellent replacement for Mel Gibson in the movie "Conspiracy Theory", or my little 'augmentation' here inside my skull that renders me invisible, and we all know what film I'm talking about.  


Yup, this has been my life, in a nutshell, ever since I traded San Quentin for Quicksilver. Funny how my ticket to freedom turned out to be just a different form of imprisonment. Tied to my Keeper's lab, like a dog on a chain, the links made of the time between my doses of Counteragent, which prevents this minor, little side-effect of the gland on my personality -- namely, my transformation into a remorseless sociopath with homicidal and suicidal tendencies.   
  


OH yeah, good ol' QSM.

And so to cover the costs of my little 'habit', I've been made monkey to the Agency, which takes advantage of my talents -- well, talent, singular -- for their dirty work.  


Monkey. Dog. Guinea pig. Lab Rat. Monster. Take your pick; I'm any of 'em and all of 'em.  


So now that we're all up to date on my amazing transmogrification abilities, we can move on to new business. I got the chance to be a man again about a month ago; Claire had come up with some new chemical that suppressed the QS gland, and thereby it's side-effects. My chain had been cut, the monkey-hat taken off, the monster shoved under the bed. It was great. For a while.  


Let's recall what Mr. Forster said about letting go of our former plans and apply to this situation: up until that point, there had always been some glimmer of hope sitting in the back of my mind that I would one day, after this whole gland thing was over and done with, be able to go back to being Darien Fawkes, Free Spirit and Private Citizen extrodinaire, with enough anonymity that I might be able to pull off a few jobs if I ever felt the urge for some good ol' B&E. This, my friends, is a good example not being willing to let go. When I finally got that taste of being 'normal' Darien again, got close to touching that hoped-for plan I could finally see that those plans had crumbled to dust long ago; my grip had been so hard that I hadn't noticed that I was trailing something dead around with me everywhere.  


What had really reached out and slapped me into submission was that even as 'normal' Darien, I still wanted to be doing the things that QS-Darien did, like participate in my Job at the agency. I screwed that one up good; almost got me, Bobby and Alex killed. My reasoning, after I actually considered why I had acted in the first place was that I just wanted to be with the people that mattered in my life and doing the job that was the only reason that I had been allowed to exist for the past two years.   


My response to my reasoning: Crap. There is no 'normal' Darien anymore.  


'Normal' Darien had nothing tying him down, not even his girlfriend kept him from his less than noble, but fun an exciting ambitions. He could sneak around unnoticed, could disappear (not literally...) for days and no one would notice. He could live where he wanted, leave when he wanted, and was responsible for no one but himself. He had friends, but he was able to keep them from sharing in his troubles and getting too close, as they might tie him down. And, 'normal' Darien still had a brother with whom he could still hold a two way conversation.  


There I was, sitting dazed in the wreckage of my life. I've been sitting here for two years thinking that I could drive on in the same direction if only I could get back in gear, blind to reality: my plans were totaled. My previous life was negated, those dreams and plans nothing more dust on the road behind me, and all that I could see ahead was being continually indentured to the Agency so that the gland wouldn't kill me, or being killed because of the gland.   


And I'm still here, wallowing in my dead future, not wanting to leave, wishing desperately that I had died with them, with my dignity, with my hopes.  


Suffice it to say, this has landed me smack in front of a sign that says: "Welcome to Depressionville; population: You."

********  
  
(And we will have chapter 1 when I have time to write it...) 


	2. Chapter One

Notes: Not a long chapter. I was debating on whether or not to alternate between Darien's POV and 3rd person, but I'm going to stick to Darien for now. He's kinda fun to play with. ^_^ There will probably be more on the weekend, since I have more midterms this week to study for. (Bleh.) Anyhoo, here's chapter one.

Chapter One

"Fawkes."

*boom boom boom*

"Fawkes!"

If I had been in any mood to answer the door, or had the inclination to even drag my ass out of bed, I would have opened the door and throttled Bobby, then order that soundproof titanium door that I saw in the Official's latest issue of "Government Surplus Unlimited". 

*boom boom boom*

"Fawkes, get your skinny carcass over here before I've gotta break down your door again," he said loudly, sounding almost as annoyed as I was feeling.

_Break it down, I don't care,_ I thought as I rolled over in the single dull-brown sheet that was the only bit of bedding left on my bare mattress; the rest I didn't recall if I had left on the couch soaked in beer, or if I had just thrown it out the window to watch it fall... Obviously, I still didn't care enough to try and remember.

"Fawkes, I'm gonna count to ten...."

_Oh please...._

"I'm warning you, my friend..."

_Like fun you're going to do anything..._

"I'm gonna have to sing _that_ song."

_No. Not that. Anything but that._

Minor explosions of explicatives went off in my head as I groaned and flopped out of bed rather unceremoniously onto the floor. Ow. Grumbling while I stumbled to my feet, I realized that I was still wearing the same pants that I had on two days ago; had the weekend closed so quickly? I guess time flies when you're having a grand-old pity party.  
If anyone can find something to get me moving out from a depressive stupor, it's Bobby Hobbes. Sure, it's usually a swift kick in the rear, or a really bad joke, but he's very skilled at what he does, and today was no exception.

"...Three... Four... Five..."

"Dammit, Hobbes...." I muttered, my words slurred sleepily. My mouth felt filmy, and tasted even worse than that. Nothing beats a weekend with a 12-pack of cheap beer, twinkies and an untouched toothbrush. Yuuuum.

"Nine... Ten... Here it goes," Hobbes began as I began to desperately fiddle with the lock on my door in hopes that I could stop him before I had to hear 'Robert Hobbes sings...'

"Oooooh.... don't a-break my heart -- my achy-breaky--- mfff!!!" My hand reached his mouth just in time. I had already once in my life had to endure my short, bald, Brooklyn-native partner's rendition of The Most Obnoxious Song Ever Written, which made it worthy of being considered cruel and unusual punishment.

"Shut... up."

"Glad to see you too," he said, pulling my hand off of his face. I proceeded to lean uneasily against the door jam and watch Bobby poke his head into my place to do his usual ten-point inspection before entering. It brought me a tiny bit of amusement as his eyes widened in alarm and his hand instinctively reached for his holster.

"Fawkes, you had company or somethin'? 'Cause no one roughs up Bobby Hobbes' partner and gets away with it." His genuine intensity and concern almost touched me, but I was feeling so off that day that I just chuckled drolly and shook my head. I glanced around the flat and decided to really look at the damage that I had personally seen to over the past two days; aside from the place being in general disarray, I used to have a functioning TV, my stereo was now property of the ground floor via the window, possibly along with the rest of my bed sheets... no, the bedding was still on the couch, beneath the spilled beer bottles. At least that answered my earlier question. Summary: my place was trashed.

"What are you laughing about?" he asked, sounding lightly annoyed, "I'm serious here, what's going on?" He continued to stalk about the place, his gun drawn around every corner.

"No one here but me and my demons," I said in an effort to sound more like me for a moment and to get Bobby to put his gun away. He took one more sweep with his piece around the room, then returned it to its place under his jacket. 

"The Fat Man sent me over here to see what the hell was keeping you. Claire was also worried that you needed a shot or somethin', but that doesn't look like that's what's goin' on."

"Brilliant deduction, Sherlock," I quipped. Yeah, I know I was pushin' it with Bobby, but I wasn't feeling my own well being as something worth much at the moment. I was even half hoping I could get into a nice fist-fight with the lil' scrapper; none of my appliances and furniture had the ability to fight back, and I craved a challenge.

Bobby sent me a quick glare and then took a long look at the mess before him. He picked up one of the few beer bottles that was still in one piece from the box with-a-hole that was once my TV and examined it as if he were appraising a Ming vase. He glanced back up at me, still leaning by the door, his typical 'Darien, what the hell is up with you?' look on his face.

"Something going on here, buddy?"

Nah, just my whole life shattering to shards in front of me.

I stared at him blankly for a moment, my head not quite sure what to respond. Lie? Maybe. Avoid it? Definitely. Tell him? I'm sure he's on enough pills for his own problems as it is; he doesn't need to deal with mine.

"Don't sweat it... just had a rough weekend," I told him, trying my best to look normal as I raise my arm up to scratch the back of my head. That is something I do, right? Thought so.

"Whaddj'a do, end up catching "Hollow Man" on HBO again? Fawkesy, you know that movie is sheer and utter crap," Hobbes so kindly reminded me; after I had seen that movie I was so traumatized that I didn't sleep for a week -- I cried through it like a little girl. What made it even worse was that Hobbes had been at my place at the time and witnessed my entire reaction to it; I was like a fly heading into one of those zapper things - I couldn't take my eyes away from the screen. Oh, we laughed about it a couple weeks later, but I think that's the only time Hobbes has actually seen the side of me that is piss-in-pants scared by my life.

"No... like I said... just had a rough time," then I suddenly caught a glimpse of myself in the half of my mirror. You know how I say 'crap' waaaay too much? Well, I looked like crap that had been crapped out of a crap-eating crap beetle in its crap house. Heh. Not to mention that my hair had gone horribly limp. 

"Um, yeah... well now that I'm up I'll go and shower..." I looked at Bobby again uneasily; he wasn't buying the whole 'I'm ok' thing, and given that my personal appearance somewhat shocked my numbed perceptions, I can only conclude that he was still suspicious. Of course, thinking that Bobby Hobbes is suspicious is like thinking that water might be wet.

"Thanks for comin' by... you can take off--"

"No, no; when Bobby Hobbes is sent to pick up his partner, Bobby Hobbes does just that."

Yeah, he definitely wasn't buying my line.

So, when the cold shower water finally shocked my brain back into the functioning world, it, my brain, and his friend, my stomach, were not made to handle continuous drinking for forty-eight hours straight. I was just able to carry out all necessary cleanings before I nearly fell out of the shower stall and dove to have a long, face to face chat with my friend John. As I sat there, still involuntarily heaving, and naked as I can get, I wondered to myself why on Earth had I gone and finished off that much booze in the first place?

_Because, your life is a joke._

Oh, yeah.

Tempted as I was to wallow there in the self-pity that I had just discovered anew, I reminded myself that Bobby was waiting for me in the other room and that he was 1) impatient, and 2) has no qualms with just walking in to see what was keeping me. This was one intimate moment that I'd rather keep to myself.

I dried myself off, brushed my thankful teeth, and then took a moment to consider the options for my hair. Now, even in a deep depression, I wasn't going to let my hair suffer for my problems; it's not like it was my hair's fault that my life sucked. So, a bit of pomade here, a bit of 'Bed Head x-tra hold, touchably soft' gel there, and my hair was as peppy as ever.

If only something could make me better so quickly.

*****

The ride to the Agency was obnoxiously quiet, which made the both of us more uneasy. Bobby kept peering over at me repeatedly; so regular was he that I began to time in my head how many seconds lapsed between glances and then began to try and guess exactly when Bobby would look. Let's just say that Bobby's like clockwork.

Being depressed is really hard to describe sometimes. I mean, the legarthy and the self-destructiveness is all a given, and we've seen that already, but there's something more subtle to it ... the more sinister part. That part of depression is like... is like watching yourself in a movie, or in a video game with a busted controller. You know the things that you should be doing, should be thinking; you know what you should know about yourself that other people tell you to try and cheer you up, but that part of your mind just can't seem to get a hold of yourself all the time. What takes over is the despair and pain that walks you around like a puppet on strings, or it may choose not to move you at all.

It's almost like a split personality.

Almost like the Madness.

At this point in time, I was still trying my best to be 'Not-Depressed' Darien, which is not to be confused with 'Normal' Darien I spoke about earlier, who doesn't exist anymore, and also not to be confused with 'QS' Darien, who ... um... I suppose had taken a vacation. 'Not-Depressed' Darien is just 'Depressed' Darien doing a half-assed job at covering it up. And why was I attempting to seem normal? 

That's another funny thing about depression; you have this greed for your own sorrows and baggage. You want to keep them all for yourself and not share like a good little boy. Goes kinda in line with the whole self-pity trip -- you get this attitude of 'they wouldn't understand' or 'I need to carry my own burdens even if it kills me.'

We pulled into Golda's spot outside the Agency's building, which to the untrained eye is just the Bureau of Weights and Measures. Golda gives off her characteristic shudder as Bobby puts her into 'park' and pulls out the key. He glanced at me one more time (which, amazingly, was still in time with each other glance...) and finally broke the silence.

"Claire, Alex, Ebes, and Fat Charlie are waitin' for us up in the office. Says he's got somethin' big on deck for us. He's prolly a little ticked that it took so long for you 'n me to get back," he said, with a forced casuality. Nice. Notice how he tactfully danced around saying, 'He's big-time ticked at you for being three hours late for work.' It astounds me how controlled the lil' bugger can be when he's trying to get something out of me.

"When is he not ticked off?" I added, trying to create a semblance of our usual banter. I smiled crookedly at him, and waited to see if he'd loosen up at all. He grinned, and cuffed me playfully towards the doors to the Agency.

"Heh heh... C'mon, punk, get moving."

***** 


	3. Chapter Two

Notes: Okay, so I should have been doing HW, but I really wanted to get this story into its actual plot before I had to spend time in HW penance. I guess I should warn those of you that don't like stories with new characters to stop reading now, because there are three new characters in this chapter who are going to be regulars in this fic. Anyhoo, on with the chapter...

Chapter 2

As much as everything that has happened there should point to the contrary, being in those stark, echoey halls of the Agency's early 1960's vintage building have a sort of calming effect on me. Maybe it's a subconscious association with my presence there meaning that I'm going to be cured of my momentary madness for another week, or the fact that two of the very few people left on this planet that have actually elicited trust from me work there, or I might just have some sick affinity for being poked, prodded, or just being in pain. I wonder about that sometimes.

Anyway, as Bobby and I made our way up to the third floor, AKA, the lair of good ol' Charlie Borden, our obese first-in-command, I felt myself settling back into a bit of my usual self -- a welcome feeling after spending an entire weekend wallowing in the alcohol-soaked land of depression. It also helped that Bobby had stopped peering at me every twenty seconds.

Bobby pushed the doors to the floor open ahead of me, and when I came through I spotted a nervous looking Eberts standing as some sort of sentry outside the 'Fish's office door. Kinda put the image in my head of what a Chihuahua would look like as a junkyard guard dog. The thought made me smirk with my usual impishness as Bobby and I swaggered up to him, Hobbes with his usual 'get outta my way, you little paper-rat,' face on as he stared down Eberts' neutral expression.

"Hello Robert, Darien," he nodded to both of us, to which Hobbes did not respond; I simply made my best QSM grin, which always makes Ebes gaze linger in well-contained fear for those priceless extra seconds before he turns to the business at hand. "The Official has been waiting for some time now. Here are your briefings on the case that he shall be presenting you with momentarily," he thrust the ever-so-too-neatly stapled and plastic-covered files that we were supposed to read up on when we had the time to in the duration of the case. Can't say that I always do. "And the Official has given me permission to admonish you both on--"

"Shaddap, Eberts," Bobby snapped, and brusquely brushed the Paper Rat aside, swung the door open, and proceeded to ignore him as he went in. I smiled again at Eberts, and waved a little bit before following Bobby in, pleasing myself with the ever-violated look that Eberts gave us before the door swung shut.

"Well, good _afternoon_, Fawkes," was the first greeting I received from an annoyed looking Alex Monroe, who sat, legs crossed elegantly, dressed and made-up so perfectly that she resembled a department store mannequin in many ways; however, I don't think that a mannequin could beat the crap out of me if I ever commented lewdly on the prominence of its cleavage, nor do I ever recall myself getting turned on by a mannequin... But I digress.

She sat next to Claire, who did her best to smile at me 'n Hobbes, although I think I sensed a bit of her trademark annoyance with it, probably stemming from the fact that she lost precious research time when made to wait, idly, in the 'Fish's office for lil' ol' me.

And the Official. His usual stare, rather, glare pierced right through Bobby, who stood between me and the Fat Man as if he were a mere window. I couldn't help but smile sheepishly and scratch the back of my head in chagrin. I knew he was pissed, and I knew it was my fault, and I knew that even if I wanted to use the excuse of being in a depressed stupor, it wouldn't matter. It was obvious what he was telling me, in that strange psychic-boss way:

_You're losing a week's worth of pay for this._

"So nice of you to join us, boys," he began in low, humoring tones, and gestured for us to have a seat; I accepted, gratefully, as my head was still a pounding reminder of my weekend activities. "I had originally planned to debrief you all on this upcoming case before our guests arrived, but they should be here any minute, so I will leave it up to them to fill you in on our latest endeavor."

"Guests?" Bobby asked, cocking an eyebrow, "Guests, as in, we're taking care of them, guests as in we're having our shoulder looked over?" He crossed his arm at the notion of both.

"Have some patience, you'll find out soon enough," the 'Fish told him, with a grin playing at the sides of his mouth. I rolled my eyes; if there was anything that didn't put my partner in a state of 'patience' it's telling him to do exactly that.

"'Soon enough' he says; gonna get us killed one of these days, 'soon enough,'...." Hobbes muttered, though with enough restraint that he plopped himself down into the chair next to me and began to drum his fingers anxiously on the arms.

Lucky enough for Hobbes -- we hadn't been sitting long enough for an uncomfortable silence to creep over us before Eberts cracked the door open and popped his head in and looking about like a gopher smelling the air out of his hole.

"Shall I show them in now, sir?" he asked the Official, who nodded. The Whippin' Boy then opened the door all the way, and stood aside to let the two figures that he had brought with him into our underfunded presence. Charlie began to stand, and each of us followed suit, though I did so reluctantly; all this up and down was not playing well with my stomach.

"I'd like you to meet the representatives of our new collaborative effort with project _le Pur_, Agent Martin Dunn, and Agent Alma Cross."

Bobby and I exchanged glances before we both turned to get a good look at the new saps who were to have the pleasure of working with us, or above us as the case usually was with these government mooks. I was unimpressed. 

Agent Dunn was your generic-looking, most likely FBI-trained, West Point-graduated, WASP, straightedge US Government Agent, sporting the white shirt, blue tie, and ubiquitous black suit. Early thirties, expressionless face, well-shaven, hair so excruciatingly cropped and set that it looked like the little 'hair pieces' that I expected him to be able to take it off like a helmet. I wasn't gonna hold my breath waiting for the day that this guy invited me 'n Hobbes out for beers. Not that I'm touching another beer for a very long time...

And now another hen in the rooster house. Agent Cross came across on first impression the exact opposite of our stately Ms. Monroe, the last of the gentler sex to have joined our merry band. If this girl was a field agent, then I was a Hot Dog vendor; as much as her partner embodied 'Government Agent' she did not. 

About Claire's height and build, though she looked a little rounder in the hips; couldn't really tell, since she was wearing a below-the-knee, navy blue jumper-dress with one of those 'empire waists', which combined with the rounded-collar white blouse and scarf, made her look like she was about 10 years old and in catholic school. Kinda reminded me of the maturity level of Eberts, plus the fact that she was cradling a stack of paperwork in her arms hit that connection on home. 

I guess I've picked up this habit from Hobbes, 'cause we were doing the exact same appraisal from a distance of our new cohorts -- heck, we were even standing there in the same pose with the same sort of calculating looks on our faces. The man is infectious... When I realized what I was doing, I nervously crossed my arms and leaned against the wall. I noticed that Hobbes had a bit of a grin on his paranoid little face as he was looking Agent Cross over. Figures that he would go for the ultra-clean-innocent looking ones -- he can have 'em.

The Agents made their way over to the desk to shake hands with our Fat Man, Dunn remaining business-like but pleasant, and Cross smiled widely and warmly shook hands with the Official. Aww, she even had pink nail polish on...

"Thank you, sir, I'm sure working with Project I-Man will achieve great results," Dunn told the Official rather loudly. _Kiss ass._

"Yes, yes. Well, please meet my staff," Charlie said, more politely than he has said anything to me in the two years that I've worked here. "This is Alex Monroe, our five-star Special Agent," he turned to a crossed-armed Alex.

"Oh, they know me already," Alex muttered in one of her more forced neutral tones. 

"Yes, we do," Dunn said lowly, and then added, "Alex."

_Do I smell a past here?_

The two of them exchanged smoldering gazes for a long moment before Agent Cross flashed another extra-wide smile and held up a hand to wave a bit at Alex. Wow, that was the first time I've seen a woman greet Alex nicely instead of being merely civil and thinking catty soap-opera worthy insults at her all the while. And then what surprised me even more was that Alex _smiled_ back.

"Hey, Alma."

_You just start to think you know someone and then they go and throw you a curve..._

"Ahem..." the Official coughed out lightly, bringing us back into the scene at hand, "This," he gestured to the Keeper, "is Claire, the resident physician on the I-man project."

"Ah -- it's a pleasure," Claire said, nodding to the both of them. And then, I could have sworn that I heard rusty joints squeaking from misuse; Agent Dunn smiled at her. It was unnatural, like when Al Gore made out with Tipper on national TV; I didn't think they even did that in private!

"Oh, no, the pleasure is all mine," he said to her, showing off obviously bleached-white teeth. 

Now, it wouldn't have been so bad if Claire hadn't've blushed, but she did, and smirked in one of those, 'I've just been complimented by a man and I'm not sure what to do about it' ways. I saw Bobby blushing too, but in a completely different manner. Think I could'a fried an egg on his skull, he turned so red, and his hands were clenched to whiteness. _'Restraint,'_ I chanted internally as if I could convey it onto him, _'restraint...'_

"Agent Robert Hobbes," Charlie gestured towards my partner, who was trying his best to look normal again. He regarded Dunn with a nod, and then turned to Cross with his hand extended. She grasped firmly and shook lightly and smiled brightly. Hobbes' face had gone from Hell to Heaven in under 30 seconds.

"Nice to meet you, Agent Hobbes," she said enthusiastically, looking straight into Hobbes' eyes. He was stunned for a few seconds, and then suddenly remembered that he was not dreaming this and needed to respond. 

"Oh, um.. yeah, you too, nice... Call me Bobby."

"All right, Bobby," she said back, smiling even wider, mirth in her words. I snorted back laughter of my own all the while, and Hobbes turned bright red yet again.

"Back there is Eberts, whom you've already met," Charlie continued, mercifully taking the attention of the room off of Bobby.

"Ah, hello," Eberts said, looking like he wanted to run away to get the eyes off of him. 

"Oh! Do you take care of the paperwork here?" Alma squeaked up, her eyes wide with some sort of anticipation. 

"Uh.. yes, I suppose I am," Eberts replied uneasily.

"Great! I usually would take care of this, but I don't know your filing system here..." she handed him the stack of papers she had been holding, "I have more, but I'll wait until you've shown me your filing room and database so I can do it myself."

_Mr. Paper Rat, meet Ms. Paper Mouse._

"S-Sure thing, Agent Cross," he stammered.

"Oh, no need for formalities -- just Alma," she smiled back.

Eberts smittenly stumbled out of the office and Bobby Hobbes' jaw was hanging down to the floor. If there ever was a day I needed cheering up, I sure picked the right one. And this was Eberts' lucky-lucky day -- never thought I'd see a girl that would match him so perfectly.

"And," the Official once again spoke gruffly to bring everyone back into what had become a drawn-out introduction, "This," he nodded towards me, "is Darien Fawkes, focal member of the I-Man project."

_Focal member? That's an interesting way to put it._

"Hey, 'sup?" I said in my best native-Californian too-causal-for-the-situation manner. 

"Ah, so you're the fabled Invisible Man," Agent Dunn said, extending his hand, "I'm looking forward to seeing you in action -- or not seeing, as the case would be, eh?" 

_He just tried to make a joke. Come on, at least give him some pity points for even trying._

"Heh... yeah..." I forced out of myself. Dunn released his grip and moved aside to let Agent Cross step forward.

She looked up at me through her slightly rectangular plastic-rimmed glasses and grabbed my still extended hand with both of hers.

_Wow, she's got warm hands._

"It's so great to finally meet you! After working with the Le Pur project I had been wondering what other interesting people are involved in other projects of national security, and I have to say, that everything that they've let me read about Quicksilver and the gland and you and the Agency have impressed me so much!" she said all in one breath, her almond-shaped brown eyes lit up the way mine might if I were looking at a huge diamond that I was just about to steal. 

"Alma," Agent Dunn put his hand on her shoulder. 

"Yes, Martin?"

"I think that Agent Fawkes would like his hand back."

"Oh--" she looked down at her hands which were still grasping and shaking mine and let go as if she had just been caught with her hands in the cookie jar. She smiled at me, this time with embarrassment, and ran a nervous hand through her long brown hair.

_Wow, she's got the nicest hair... has to be using products. She must spend all morning getting it so shiny and perfectly..._

I blinked -- I had been having hair thoughts again. I usually don't share them with other people, mainly because most people think that guys who are a little obsessed with hair are, um, gay. Well, I'm not, but I spend enough of my time with one guy that I don't want to encourage others to be sprouting ideas that I might be more than friends with Bobby Hobbes. And then, accusing Hobbes of being a little light in his boots is 'opening up a whole new can of worms', as he would put it.

_But wow, did her hair just turn me on._

I'm pathetic.

"Agent Dunn, would you mind if I had you explain why we are making this joint venture?" the 'Fish said, sitting back at his desk in the chair which I am dead sure must have a true-to-life imprint of his butt permanently imprinted in it. 

"Not at all," he whispered something to Agent Cross, who nodded and headed off out the door. 

"Project _le Pur_ exists for much the same reason that the Agency and project I-Man. We are an ultra-secret government taskforce that utilizes the special abilities of one of our members to solve special cases that other, larger agencies, such as the CIA or the FBI cannot get to for reasons of being under too high scrutiny, too public, or there is too great a security risk. The PLP for some time now has had an adversary that I think you will all recognize here at the Agency: Chrysalis.   
"We have both clashed with this clandestine Organization for different reasons and under different circumstances, and we have both made some progress in infiltrating their operations and bringing their intentions to light. However, some of my superiors and those who oversee you, the Agency, have come to agree that put together as one team, we may form a force formidable enough to take down Chrysalis for good."

"Um, okay," Bobby muttered, "so, which one of you's got the special abilities that'll compliment my buddy Fawkes' disappearing act? You a robot underneath that suit?"

I grinned at Hobbes comment. "Yeah, I was kinda wondering the same thing." I didn't think that Agent Cross' impeccable hair counted as a special ability that would help take down Chrysalis.

"I think she is coming through the door with Agent Cross right now," Dunn said with a cocky smirk to one side of his angular face. All eyes were to the door. Alma came in first, and behind her was a female form dressed in a formfitting black-and-grey bodysuit, gray hood, facemask and reflective specs over her eyes; kinda resembled a ninja in one'a those martial arts movies. Except a ninja with a really hot body, and two really big guns strapped to her thighs a-la Lara Croft.

"This is le Pur, our secret agent, and secret weapon."

******* 


	4. Chapter Three

Notes: First of all, for those of you who actually speak and understand French, I must apologize; I don't. So, I had to go to an internet translation site to get the language lines I use in here. It was the best I could do, short of learning French, and like I need another class right now... gah.   
Once again, I should'a been studying, but I felt some odd urge to finish this chapter... so I will be up quite late tonight studying for some more midterms. Yummy. Enjoy!

Chapter Three

I had just settled into the idea of this being one of those rare introductions where there is no short-tempered-superspy-'could-kill-you-five-different-ways-in-a-minute' agent to have to look forward to working with way too closely, but it seems that I have once again proven wrong.

My fellow 'project focal member' stood there with her ams crossed, leaning on one long curvy leg, sticking her hip out in a way that only dominatrices and super-agent women can get away with (Alex, no surprise, is an expert at such a pose). Bobby and I exchanged glances once more, in a mix of anticipatory rivalry over this tough chick in tight clothes and apprehension of the fact that Alex Monroe looked like cake compared to this one.

"le Pur, meet project I-Man," Dunn said to her like he was taking to a five-year-old -- I swear that I could see a sneer cross her face even through the thick facemask she wore as she peered about the room through those insect-like specs. I wanna know how to do that; give off a total aura of indifference without anyone having to see my face.

"This is..." Dunn began, gesturing towards the Official.

"Aucun besoin d'introductions ; J'ai été davantage que responsable en se rendant familier avec les noms et les visages de leurs membres," she purred out in what sounded to me like native-spoken French. 

Oh, and how, you ask, did lil' old me understand a word that came out of her mouth? Well, I haven't always been an ex-con government experiment for my whole life -- almost majored in French during my two-year stint at Riverside, brought on by some interest in my half-ancestry. (Yeah, mom was a Bouvier, quite a fine old French family; almost too bad she married into the thievin', common, Anglo Fawkes clan.) It also helps that I pulled some jobs the year before I got sent up to San-Q in Quebec, which kinda forced me to brush up on my _français_. Granted, I'm a little rusty, but I got the gist of what she was getting at: 'I already know who they are, you patronizing sod.'

Sod? I've been around Claire way too much...

Dunn stared for a long moment at his charge, clearly frustrated with her, but not surprised. Alma looked as if she were trying her best to stifle a smile -- she was losing, as one of her cheeks was lifting bemusedly. Couldn't help but smiling myself.

"le Pur, it's been a while," Monroe said with an odd tone; I tried to get a bit of a clue into what sort of weirdness was happening, but Alex was wearing the same poker-face that she had maintained since Cross and Dunn had walked in. If there was any one reason that she's a 5-star agent, it's probably that unreadable face of hers. Seduction probably came in a close second. 

"Well, buddy, at least we're not the only project with a redundant name," I said casually to Hobbes, doing my best to aid the cause in keeping awkward pauses and smoldering stares from popping up in the meeting.

"'I-Man', 'le Pur'," he shrugged his shoulders, "Not too original; but at least they're to the point, focused..."

"Bi-syllabic!" I added holding my finger in the air, looking smart. Bobby and I nodded to each other emphatically, grinning like 7th graders who had said something smart-assed in class. 

"Boys..." the Official interrupted our irreverent banter of the moment, rolling his eyes.

"As I was going to say..." Dunn began again, when the french-ninja chick stepped forward in a fluid motion, bowed curtly to the entire room and announced, "Puits... il est été grand. J'ai des choses à faire maintenant ; au revoir," and strode out of the room without wasting another breath in our presence, leaving everyone somewhat at a loss for words. 

"What was that all about?" asked the Official, looking on the unamused side of being puzzled.

"Um, she just said she had some stuff to do," Alma piped up, looking embarrassed, her lightly-tanned face glowing around her cheeks, "we... ah... usually don't make her show up places just to introduce herself."

"Um," I began, pausing and wincing as my hangover-headache was preaching to me the virtues of sobriety, "assuming that there is something that le Pur can do, besides fit into that, uh, jumpsuit -- she is going to actually do her job and not just bite her thumb at us and stomp off when she 'has stuff to do'?" I asked, directing my question unintentionally at Alma, who just happened to be right in front of me and was blushing from embarrassment so much that her face was resembling a shapely tomato with perfect hair. Kinda made me feel bad -- wasn't like it was her fault, so I uncomfortably rubbed the back of my head and turned to Agent Dunn. 

"Cuz, frankly," I went on, "I get a little unnerved around our friends from Chrysalis even when I'm there with someone I trust implicitly," I could see Bobby's chest swell in my peripheral vision, "What I'm trying to get at here..." 

"Liability, my friends," Bobby began as soon as I trailed off, not able to find the word I needed from my still fuzzed-brain, "I think that's what my large-haired partner here is trying to get at."

"Thanks for the clarification, my hair-challenged partner..." I added, putting in the required modifier for one of our typical back-and-forth chats.

"Any time, punk," he finished, nodding to me like we were both old gentlemen from the South having just wrapped up a most eloquent greeting.

"I must add a similar sentiment," Claire interjected, stepping into the space between me and Bobby, "That was one of the most rude introductions I've taken part in," and then she added under her breath, "even for a frog..."

Let the record stand that England and France are still not friends.

"I--" Dunn was about to start again, when he let himself trail off in anticipation of being interrupted again. Some people just can't get two words in some days; this was that day for Agent Dunn.

"Let me assure you," Alex began, stepping towards the Official's desk, "le Pur has become legend in the intelligence and defense community; she is known for her superior skill in undertaking missions of the highest delicacy and importance. And," she threw another indecipherable look to Alma, "I have worked with her and her project, and can tell you that she was more than reliable then, and I don't see why she wouldn't be now."

"Thank you, Agent Monroe," Dunn said, with light surprise on his voice. I noticed Alex glare slightly at him; she obviously hadn't spoken up for his sake. 

"All right, Agent Monroe, we trust your judgment," the Fat Man looked up at Bobby, me, and Claire, compelling us once again to follow suit.

"'Sok then," Bobby said quickly, as always the first of us to kiss that Fat Official Ass and protect his interests. Claire snorted and nodded.

I sighed. This was making my head hurt more. "Fine. We'll see." _It's not like my well-being is worth much these days..._

I heard the door slam again, and this time it was Eberts, white-faced, barely composed, leaning on the door in hopes that it stayed closed. I assume he must have met face-to-mask with our ever-charming new compatriot. He hurriedly scuttled to his normal place at the Official's right hand, and opened the manilla folder that sat in front of the Boss. You know, it's not like the Official can't spare the calories that would be expended by opening up his own documents to read, or getting up to fetch his own coffee, or scratching his own... Yeah. Anyway...

"Would you care to fill my team in on our upcoming assignment?" he said, looking towards Cross and Dunn. I think he was trying to spare himself from the inevitable comments that would come from the peanut gallery, AKA, me 'n Hobbes.

"I'd be delighted to," Agent Cross said with another smile that was by far too wide for any government agency. "If you would all turn to page four of your briefings..." she waited for us to open up our books, resembling a kindergarten teacher waiting for her kids to get out their paper and red crayons. 

"Ah, Miss Cross... I mean, Alma," Eberts began all of a sudden, his voice quivering more than usual, "Do you need a copy?" He held up a briefing.

"Oh, thanks, but no. I have it memorized," she grinned an extra-cute grin to Eberts, tapping her temple with her finger to emphasize. Ebes stood there, stunned and impressed and so obviously smitten.

"Just to get us all started in the same place, since I'm not sure if you have stumbled upon this fact about our favorite Evil Empire, but upon the last mission that le Pur undertook involving Chrysalis, we discovered the encompassing goal of their network," Alma began, taking on a note of seriousness that she hadn't even given a hint that she possessed before, as she adjusted her fashionably-geeky plastic rimmed glasses. 

"Yeah, yeah, the whole 'We are technology' B-S..." Bobby dismissed with a waving hand, feeling that we had the scoop on things for once.

"Ah... actually, that is only a means, not the end..." Alma said delicately. Hobbes pursed his lips puzzledly and peered at her for a moment, then turned to me, as if I had a better answer. I shrugged.

"But what could they be possibly be hoping to accomplish, other than to control the progress of technology in this tech-dependent world we live in?" Claire asked, wearing her wonderfully attractive look of intense concern; you can just tell that her brain is working a mile a minute.

While everyone was busy conjecturing and acting shocked at the fact that there was even more badness in the Chrysalis camp than we realized (though it should have come as no particular surprise), I simply decided to take a peek at the nice big file that I had open in front of me. _Page four... blah blah Chrysalis, blah blah genetic engineering, blah blah immortality, blah blah global takeover... woah. _"Um..." I raised my hand hesitantly, interrupting Claire, whom I hadn't noticed had continued talking since I last listened. "Can we discuss this 'Immortality' and," I paused, looking down to get the words straight, " 'time-punctuated gradual global takeover?"

"Wha-a-at?" Bobby frowned as he hurriedly flipped through his file to find where I was. Claire and Alex both decided to look up at Alma and Dunn for answers.

"Congratulations, Mr. Fawkes, you found it. In fact, the whole goal of the Chrysalis movement is to outlast everyone. You're well aware of the genetically engineered children that they have created?" She looked at each face in the room, Alex's the most disgusted by the mention of the genetically engineered children.

"Do we ever..." Bobby grumbled, glancing up to Alex.

"They are, in essence, creating a super race of humans -- all impervious to the diseases of aging, resistant to bacteria and virii, and have had their DNA and RNA transcriptase enzymes carefully altered, along with an extra telomerase enzyme, so that their cellular structure will remain static at the equivalent of age twenty-five, in theory." Alma rattled off without even a stutter at words that I have absolutely no clue to the meaning. Claire, however, was staring, again, with an intense look of deep thought.

"And, with that..." 

"I see... they plan on outlasting everyone else," Claire interrupted, more in speaking to herself than to us, "With age comes information, resources, technology... everything..." she trailed off with a look of horror on her face. That look always has a way of making my stomach turn in knots, and in addition to my persisting hangover-headache, left me feeling somewhat nauseous.

"That's not a happy face, Claire," Bobby said in concern, "All this hoo-haa isn't possible, is it? None of this 'transcrip'-whatchacallit, it's not plausible, right?"

No response.

"Claire?" I asked, trying to make eye contact. 

She shook her head and looked down. "It's... it's possible, in theory..."

"Craaaap..." 

"Don't get down yet," Dunn broke in, and nudged Cross, who had become somewhat engrossed in our private 'team I-Man'-only exchange.

"Oh, yes, um... So as far as we know, and as far as our own scientists who have studied the information obtained have concluded, they have achieved such. However,"

"However? I like howevers," I interjected hopefully, nodding to Hobbes, who nodded back with the same enthusiasm that I had.

"...However," Alma barely suppressed a grin at me, "the procedure is not perfect. As we know from having tampered with nature before, there are always costs to what we might gain through genetic tinkering. In this case, the sheer energy that is required of the bodies of these individuals due to the increased intricacy of mere cell division seems to have a twofold consequence. First, is that cellular regeneration is greatly compromised when it comes to actual wounds, and muscular strength in some individuals is compromised. That is a simple matter of the body not being able to produce enough ATP to make the 'perfect' cell divisions.   
The other major side effect is even more of a hitch in Chrysalis' plan: to control some of the metabolic functions that are increased by the cellular stasis, the individual's own brain must compensate some of its own resources to regulate the body enough to stay alive. This draws energy in general away from the brain, and also pre-empts an alarming portion of the cerebrum into a medulla oblongata-type 'lower function' regulating system, thereby compromising intelligence as well. This, if you are at all interested in reading more about, is detailed in pages fifteen to twenty-eight in your briefings. Oh... and there is a disk in the back of yours miss... um... I'm not sure I got your last name, Claire," Alma said, looking apologetic. 

"Oh, it's Keppler," Claire said casually, flipping to the back of her paper stack to find a green CD-RW waiting there for her enjoyment. 

"Ah... ah..." Hobbes was staring in disbelief, looking back and forth from Claire to Alma to Me, pointing confusedly.

"What is it, Hobbesy? Want a shiny disk for you too?" I asked him, cocking an eyebrow. He looked at me desperately.

"I've been trying to find out Claire's last name for almost three years now, and out of the blue, she just goes and tells someone," he told me in a stressed whisper, grabbing my shirt collar. "I've gone through her trash, her purse, the Keep, the files, everything and her last name was not there!"

"Didja ever just ask her?"

At this point Hobbes looked very, very unpleasant, and sat down heavily with his arms crossed. He peered at me with his 'smart-ass' look, like I had just insulted his grandma or something.

"Anyway, getting to the actual mission itself..." Alma said, trying to lead us all back into what she was so graciously trying to get out to us.

"You mean there's more?" I whined, rubbing the back of my head. Kind of made me think for a moment about her comment about messing with nature; I was a prime example of that. However, my tampering-with-nature had been tampered with even further by an evil genius, so... well, it's not exactly the same, but illustrates just as well how these things can go wrong oh so easily. So easily.

"Yes, Mr. Fawkes, there is, so if you would ever so kindly let Agent Cross continue..." Agent Dunn said to me in the way that someone would chastise another person's kid at movie for misbehaving.

"It's ok, Martin, I have this under control," Alma told him with a sidewise look. Dunn stiffened as Cross turned back to us once more. "We have come to believe, through various evidences and raids, that Chrysalis has a center based in LA where they are attempting to remedy these side effects, and at whatever means necessary, which includes murder, kidnapping, and stealing the life's work of a superlatively brilliant geneticist named Dr. Robert Giancoli.   
Dr. Giancoli, who himself passed away nearly two years ago left countless files, journals and other information on genetic engineering and genome mapping. His work was to be entrusted to both the US government and his protégé, Dr. Eugene Chi. But his estate was raided before the files were moved to a government safe hold where Dr. Chi was to continue the work.   
We know that Chrysalis has been doing live experiments on human subjects, some which are actually children who have undergone the gene enhancement, others are kidnapped from the street and then held until they die or are 'euthanized.' Our mission is to retrieve solid evidence of the activities at their facility, and, if possible, collect the files that have been stolen and liberate any imprisoned subjects, children or kidnapped."

"Bastards..." Hobbes muttered, looking down at his file in disgust; he had caught a particularly heart-wrenching picture of a 5-year old child being injected with a large needle into her left temple. His eyes snapped up, filled with an unusual rage, "Boss, when can we go and teach these mofos a lesson that they don't go messin' with kids on Bobby Hobbes' watch?"

"Stakeout begins tomorrow night. Team will be you, Hobbes, and Fawkes, accompanied by the Keeper in case of medical or counteragent emergency, and will rendezvous with le Pur and Agent Dunn at a designated spot in Orange County...."

"Excuse me, but why am I being left out of this venture? I can tell you that I'm better suited for this kind of excursion than Mr. Vanishing Cream here," Alex Monroe cut in rather sharply (ha ha), nudging me out of the way and getting into the Official's stern face. _Vanishing Cream? That's a new one; gonna have to add that to the list._

"Conflict of interest, Ms. Monroe, and you know that yourself," came a voice from behind us. Dunn stood there, he and Monroe once again delving into a staring contest, his smug, hers as pissed as all hell.

"No one knows how these operations of theirs work better than I do, and I don't care if my son is or was one of these kids; I would want to save them no matter what my own circumstances were..."

Cross walked up beside Alex and placed her hand on Alex's arm. "Alex... James is there."

Alex, and everyone else for that matter, turned to Alma. Monroe grabbed Cross by the shoulders and shook her once, her face wild with a look that would have prompted me to quicksilver and run home. But somehow, Alma continued to stare sadly into Alex's eyes.

"You knew about this earlier and you didn't tell me? MY son is being made a lab rat in some Godforsaken Chrysalis HOLE and I wasn't informed until now? And now you won't let me go... but you'll let good ol' Martin here take part?"

_Um... what does Agent Dunn have to do with this?_

"Alex, let her go, you're gonna hurt her," Dunn, looking strained, grabbed at Alex's shoulder. She whipped back violently, turning to him with a look of sheer madness on her face.

"YOU. I know you had something to do in keeping this from me. James could have been your son as far as things were going, but you can take part in this. So help me, if you end up endangering..." she went on, poking Dunn's jacketed chest with a sharp finger. 

_Um... His son?_

"Listen, Alex, you know that I have no attachment to _your_ kid, and let's not go into this for the thousandth time," Dunn retorted in a tired, almost rude tone. Yeah, just go and throw some gasoline on the fire, a whole drum. 

"You never change, do you, you cold-hearted, bureaucratic, _son of a bitch_," she snarled, her nose inches from his.

"Monroe..." the Official said uneasily, nodding to Bobby to try and step in to stop this before it went further.

"C'mon, Monroe, let's back off... --ooof--" Hobbes tried to lay a hand on her to draw her back and instead was the grateful recipient of a pointed elbow to his abs. He doubled over for a moment, glaring up at me as if I had done something wrong.

"I didn't tell _you_ to go to and get artificially inseminated while you knew the risks of being such a high-profile agent in something like that. I take no responsibility for the last claw-holds of your femininity and your blaring biological clock," he said to her, his droll tone from earlier moving into an indignant, defensive 'I-told-you-so.'

This whole scene was making my head hurt even more: Monroe, now so irate that she was holding her fist back to deck Agent Dunn, who apparently had something to do with her decision to have a child via frozen-pop, and Bobby was posed behind her, doing his best to hold her fist back in the wind-up position, now that he was somewhat recovered from the cheap shot earlier, and the Official was shaking his head with Eberts offering him an antacid... oh, and Claire was still wonderfully oblivious to this, her nose pressed into the binding of her briefing. 

"Madhouse..." I said to myself, rubbing the back of my head.

_All's we need now is me going QSM...._

*

_Crap._

_Headache; check. Counteragent shot after rough, fuzzy-memoried weekend; no. Last timed checked Mr. Snake; Don't remember._

I turned over my hand, knowing what I was going to see, and just feeling the rush that was making its way up to my head to tell me the wonders of plunging into the world of the mad. One segment green. 

"Claiiiire........" I said, trying to brace myself to ward off the impending pain that was coming.

"Hurm?" she grunted from deep within her reading, figuring that my cry was a part of the argument that was still going on between Dunn and Monroe.

"I need a Sh-OOOt--- Arrrrrrgh!!" 

That first migraine-on-steroids is always the best; not only am I in call-out-for-mommy pain, but I'm going to be a homicidal lunatic in no time at all. I slapped my hands over the back of my head in the way that I always do when this happens, which is perpetually too often. In a pain-gasm I flopped down into the chair, and then felt myself writhe to the floor, my eyes clenched shut.

"What's wrong with him?" I heard Cross ask loudly, and the commotion suddenly quiet down as the noise I was making moaning and thrashing increased proportionally. I felt her hand touch my back gingerly, "Agent Fawkes!"

"Aw crap, not this..." Hobbes said. Yeah, my sentiments exactly.

"Bloody...!" was all I heard from Claire. Felt her grab my wrist, "Sod it all!" and heard her boots from towards the door.

"Hello? What's wrong with him?!" Cross asked, her voice full of confusion.

_Hehe... pretty one with nice hair. We want her._

Oh no. I knew who that was: Mr. Naughty, as he had become known to me. See, when the madness sets in, it's like I have two voices in my head, Me and Mr. Naughty. When the madness is there, Mr. Naughty gets very pushy and suggestive to me, and at the same time my resistance to impulsive, naughty thoughts goes straight down. Thus accounting for how I can remember a lot of what transpires when I'm in the QSM. I'm like Pinocchio with Marilyn Manson as a conscious.

Just stop hurting!

_Okay, buddy, let's go then. We're gonna have some fun now!_

"Alma, get away from him... he's a little on the dangerous side right now... Claire's coming up with the counteragent," I heard Bobby tell Alma, his voice full of urgency.

"You mean this happens when that Quicksilver Madness comes? I thought that that was under tight control and supervision," Agent Dunn spat out disgustedly.

"Yeah, well... Fawkesy had a bit of a rough weekend, ok, and we didn't have time to visit the Keep before we had to get up here to have this fine introduction to you people," Bobby, so nice, always covering for me.

_Rough weekend? They don't know the half of it! We've just had the worst time of our life and we get this kind of treatment? They really suck, don't they?_

Yeah, I guess they do.

_Are we done hurting?_

Yeah.

_Good. Since we can't do anything right for them, then let's get a little piece of stuff for us, shall we?_

I don't know...

_Come on, don't be a baby. You know that the new girl's gonna taste really good. And you'll feel great after you throw someone out of the window._

Maybe...

_You like throwin' stuff, right?_

Heck yeah!

_C'mon, buddy, just follow me and you can't go wrong!_

Boy, I'm a sucker for Mr. Naughty. My head had stopped burning, and I could finally open my now wonderfully bloodshot eyes that kinda resembled 'Satan-posessed Marlena' on Days of Our Lives. I saw Alma still kneeled over me, with Bobby behind her, trying to rush her away.

"Where you takin' her, Bobby, buddy? Don'tcha trust your partner with the new filly next to him, hmmmm? hehehe," I do recall finding myself really funny for no particular reason. Snatching my hand out faster than possible for a sane me, I took hold of Alma's arm before Bobby could pull her to safety. I pulled her close to me, sniffing her hair in a very creepish way as I pulled the both of us to our feet.

"See, she's safe right here, aren't ya, my pretty girl with the perfect hair," I blurted out everything that I had been thinking about earlier, part of me cringing at that. I felt her tense under my grip, and boy, did it ever turn Mr. Naughty on big-time. I began to inch for the door, thinking that I could slip out and take her somewhere that we could be alone, but I found Dunn and Monroe quickly in front of me with the ability to knock me out. So we scuttled towards the window.

"Okay, so you're not gonna let us have any privacy. I don't mind giving you all a show," I turned my face into her hair, and kissed her ear. She shuddered, and I grabbed my hands across her chest tighter, then roughly sucked on her neck. 

Oh god, what am I doing?

"Fawkes, let her go," the Official said to me softly but solidly. I smiled at him crazily.

"Hey there Mr. Charlie Borden, Fat Man- Fish..."

"Fawkes, c'mon buddy, get a grip on it! I know you can control this if you try," Bobby tried his best to cater to what was left of my sane side.

"NO! I like being here, I like having control over everyone around me, like how I want to run my hands through Miss Alma's perfect hair..." and I creeped my fingers over her scalp and sensuously ran my fingers through a few times. I could feel her shivering each time I did it, and my own breath sped up with each run.

"Fawkes! Try!"

"I...." suddenly, I felt Mr. Naughty disappear for a moment in time. I could see myself and what I was doing to her, in front of everyone. I looked down at her, and saw the panic on her face. "I'm sorry Alma... I don't mean any of... hurk......"

And then Mr. Naughty was back.

_What do you think you're doing, listening to them? They cause all your problems, you know, you could have had your life if it weren't for them and what they've done to you, putting a gland in your head, holding you hostage with the counteragent. You hate them!!!! You HATE!_

I positioned my hand over Alma's neck, the other one fiddled with a window latch. I peered at everyone slowly, waiting for them to do something, to try and hurt me, to stop me, to hold me back like they always did!

"Partner, it's been a rough day for you, I know, I've had a few of my own, but we all need to just settle down," Hobbes went on, seeing my change in stance.

I frowned in a markedly ugly fashion. "Rough day... yeah, Partner, I've had it rough. I've had my whole life as a 'rough day'... Ruined, you know... You know what? Just a couple of weeks ago I wanted to be just like you, I thought that my life could be something worthwhile even without Mr. Fun gland, but noooooo, I have to become Mr. Useless instead! Well... I've seen the light. I need to take things into my own hands," I took a quick look down at Alma, "And look," I smiled sinisterly, "I have something in my own hands, this harmless girl with perfect hair and a smell of strawberries. I was gonna have her, but now... she's coming with me."

Instead of just opening the window as I had originally intended, I just sent my fist flying through it, sending shards into my skin and glittering Alma's hair with shiny sparkles.

"Fawkes... don't do this..." Hobbes said to me, even more urgently. I could tell he was getting ready to jump at me, because he could tell that I was planning on taking things into my own hands... by jumping from the window with Alma in my possession.

"I'm nothing, Hobbes, nothing. I've become only a receptacle for your 'focus team member', Mr. Gland. You don't care, you don't understand... you just want your pay. Claire just wants her research. Alex wants someone to belittle. And these two, you, Cross, Dunn, you just want a new freak in your show! No..." I could hear the honest despair dripping from my maddened voice. All the hurt that I had been bottling up was shooting forth like cannons at pirates. 

"No! Don't hurt her!!" someone screamed at me from behind. I felt fists pounding on my back, and turned my head to the side to see lil' ol' Eberts trying his best to save his new prospect for a female match.

"Get off'a me, you spineless twerp..." I spat, backhanding him with my bloodied hand, sending him flying behind the Official. I must admit, though, that was awfully brave of the guy, and that was also the first time I saw the Official get out of his seat for Eberts' sake, as he knelt down to see if he was injured.

I suppose that distracted me enough so that Agent Cross, who I forgot was an actual agent, in a swift motion, grabbed me by the arm that was holding her and flipped me onto the ground sharply. Ohboy, did that tick off Mr. Naughty.

_Nasty bitch! She just attacked you! She's just like all the rest of 'em. Choke her. _

No.

_DO IT!_

I snarled and turned over, looking up at Cross, her face hardened and upset; it actually surprised me to see her like that even in my nutso state.

"Jump him!" Bobby shouted, and I felt the weight of three Agents atop me: Dunn, Monroe and Hobbes. 

"GET OFF'A ME! DAMN YOU ALL, JUST LET ME DO SOMETHING FOR MYSELF!!" I heard my own voice screaming and wriggling, all the while wanting nothing more than to get my fingers circled around that slender neck of Cross' and squeeze the life out of her.

It always amazes me how much strength I have when in QSM, because I managed to buck off all three of these trained agents; granted, the only reason that I was still in the land of the living was that they didn't want me or the gland damaged, the gland part of that equation making the paranoid/depressed/suicidal/homicidal me all the more irate.

My hands went straight for her throat, "Nice meeting you, Alma, and 'm sorry I messed up your hair," I whispered to her as I began to squeeze, and kissed her savagely on the lips. I'm quite the romantic, aren't I?

"Everyone, DUCK!" I heard a millisecond after the door burst open, and I turned to look just in time to see Claire with her tranquilizer gun zeroed in on my chest. I looked down and saw the pin sticking into my chest, its load of sedative delivered. The room began to swim, and for a moment, everything seemed so clear again.

"Sorry..." I sputtered to Alma as I let go of her and toppled over on top of her. The room went black.

_Hehe, we had some fun this time..._

Shut up, Mr. Naughty...

******* 


	5. Chapter Four

**Notes: **Hi All! It's been a while, I know, but I've had a busy busy quarter with lots and lots of units, so it's been a little hard to get to writing. But, here's chapter 4 for y'all. Hope you enjoy it. (Oh, and it may be a little while before I get to the next chapter, since people've been bugging me to get to writing chapters to a few other fics of mine, so I'll be elsewhere in the world of writing for a time.) 

**Chapter 4**

Waking up out of a drug-induced deep, dark sleep isn't usually high on my list of things I like to do, but for once that groggy, heavy feeling was the best I'd felt all day. It was one of those simple pleasures to just sit there for a little while, not realizing where I was or why I was there, just sure of the fact that I was relaxed with my own thoughts and no trace of Mr. Naughty or any other split personalities that I may be developing thanks to that thing in the back of my skull.

And then reality always rears its wonderful head. I felt the hard, familiar feel of my 'high chair' in the Keep beneath me, and felt a somewhat scratchy, presumably old government stock blanket draped over me. _What the hell am I doing here...?_

_Oh... yeah, that... Crap._

"Ugggh...." I gurgled involuntarily when I forced my stiff body to stir from where it was resting.

"Darien!" Claire's voice resonated melodiously through the Keep, making me aware that she was only a few feet away from me. Let's see... by the sound, she was probably at her computer doing her Keepie things that blow my mind when I get nosy enough to ask her what exactly she's doing.

I tried my best to sit up, wanting to exact some control over myself, but felt the room pitch and back down I went with my head pounding again. I tried to raise my hands to rub at my face, but found a whole new pain greeting me from my right hand. I stared at it dumbly for a moment trying to figure out why there were multiple bandages and sutures marking my entire hand and forearm.

"Wha...?" I mumbled blearily, my vision focusing better at this point when I noticed Claire standing over me with her 'mother hen' look of concern and doting.

"You'd best be thankful for whoever came up with the ingenious idea of using super glue for small lacerations or you would have quite a Frankensteinian hand right now," she said with a bit of her usual admonishing humor. 

"Aw, but you know how chicks dig scars," I countered hoarsely, trying my best to smile. 

Claire grinned lightly. "I'm sure you'll have many more opportunities to smash your hands through glass windows in your line of work, and your usual reckless behavior," she examined the sutures and bandages with a light touch that only physicians and mothers can master. I wondered if Claire ever became a mother, then, would her touch be so light that it couldn't be felt? Didn't really have that much time to ponder that first thought when it dawned on me that I had, indeed, sent my writing hand through a rather large window in the Official's office. 

"Oh, yeah... that did really happen, didn't it?" 

"Urm hm..." she mumbled, since she was now preoccupied with shining her penlight into each of my eyes and began to poke and prod me. Under different circumstances, I would let Claire poke me wherever she pleased, but it does get a little on the obnoxious side when someone's always welcoming themselves to examining every intimate part of your body without even asking you first.

"Am I ripe yet?" I asked as she was pushing on my bare chest with her fingertips over and over again.

"Shut up," she retorted, still preoccupied with her examination. "Does your chest feel tender at all? Any pain?"

"Aside from a general feeling of throbbing all over? Nope."

"Excellent," she turned and wrote something down in the notebook on the counter behind her.

"Put something new in me while I was asleep? I hope that this one can make me fly; Superman sounds like a lot more fun than the Invisible Man, even with kryptonite," I joked, though somewhat downheartedly. There was was a bit of seriousness in that question.

"No, no, Darien... I'd never do that to you," she turned and looked down at me apologetically, "I was just making sure that my new tranquilizer gun hadn't inflicted any lingering damage. It was designed originally for use upon large mammals in zoos and such, so I wasn't sure if the cartridge load would hurt a human."

"Zoos, huh?" my mood was sinking fast. Each little tidbit of memory from my last stint into QSM would linger by itself, just long enough to make me feel completely rotten about it until moving on to the next wonderful event. "Why not? I'm just another wild, mindless, caged creature..." I began to sit up, fighting the dizziness with all my might, distressing Claire.

"Darien--! Don't say that... lay back down! You're body is still not recovered from the sedative and whatever abuse it has been through in the last few days..." she put her hand on my shoulder tenderly, but I didn't want anyone's touch, anyone's pity, and pulled away.

"Aren't you going to ask me why on Earth I didn't check the snake, or tell me that I shouldn't be so careless? C'mon, Claire, it's your line," I said dryly, looking her in the eye.

"I --" I don't often see Claire at a loss for words, or at least in a very delicate grasp for the right ones. She sighed, and I took that as my cue to take off. I wobbled around the keep for a little bit, silently searching for where my shirt had magically disappeared to, trying my best to keep up the front that I wasn't thisclose to falling like a tree in a forest with no one to hear it.

"I care about you, Darien," I heard her say when I had stooped down to pick up what looked like it could have been my shirt. I stayed there for a moment, gathering my thoughts, and felt her behind me, putting a hand on my shoulder. "Not only as your physician, but as your friend... I've noticed that you haven't been yourself lately, especially since the last mission, and I'm sure that Bobby has noticed as well. We're... I'm worried about you, and I'm asking you now, is there anything you want to talk about? Because, you know I'm always here for you."

I turned and looked up into those bright, sincere eyes of hers. She really wanted to help me, and for a moment I almost broke down with all my fears and depression right there in a heap for her. But...

_What can you do, Claire? You can't just kiss my shitty life and make it all better... You've got stuff going for you, you're a useful member of society by no aid of something someone did to you. Don't taint it with me. _

I stood up, where I got the willpower to do so, I don't have a clue, and stared at her for a moment.

"Thanks Claire... when you can help me, I'll be sure to come straight to you."

"You're sure there's nothing I can do?"

"Nah... I'm okay. Just moody me like always," I flat out lied with a smirk on my face. Wasn't really sure if she bought the line, after all, it doesn't take a genius like her to see through one of my lies.

"All right..." she said, sounding resigned, and turned to start cleaning up the countertop next to Satan's dentist's chair, and I stood watching her, my shirt in hand.

"Need anything else from me?" I asked gently. Honestly, I was feeling guilty for making Claire feel like she was being blocked out, and yes, I was doing exactly that, but I hadn't even intended on making my favorite Keeper feel useless and mistrusted. And so she felt bad, so I felt worse, which would make her feel more bad at not being able to help... and the vicious cycle continues on.

"You are due for blood work, but I took the liberty of taking a draw while you were still asleep, so you're free to go," Claire told me without turning around to look at me. So, feeling worlds more frustrated I headed for the door just wanting to get away and hopefully not run into anyone else and inevitably make them feel like an inferior friend. I was just about to press the keypad to open the Keep door when...

"...I'm sure I'm fine-- Hel-lo!" I heard the voice of Agent Cross coming from the vicinity of my chest, since she had swiped open the door a split second before my finger made it to the button. Her nose was pressed to my bare chest not only because she had walked into me, but there was a pursuant Bobby Hobbes right behind her who had collided into her, creating an Agent sandwich of sorts. At this point I realized that though I had possession of my shirt, I had failed to put it back on as I felt hot female breath straight between my pecs, (or as Bobby would say, my 'cleavage' -- he's just bitter that I actually have chest muscles to create some manly muscle cleavage... er, anyway...).

"Woah there! Sorry 'bout that," Bobby sputtered, backing off of her as quickly as possible. I'm sure he'd done enough already to make her want to get away from him that he didn't want to mess up more by squishing her into me more than he had already done.

"Not your fault--" she cut off quickly when she finally looked up, rubbing her nose, and realized that the person she had just been forced into a somewhat compromising position was the same guy who had attempted the equivalent of rape, battery, murder, and not to mention a lot of perv-ish dialogue and feeling-up, mere hours before. 

Yeah... that's me.

I, for one, felt ready to hide under a rock as I looked down at her and found myself trapped by her stare. I noticed her eyes dilate behind her glasses and felt her freeze against me. Damn it, not another person traumatized thanks to me.

"Ah, Fawkesy, I see you're up," Bobby quickly interjected when he realized exactly what was going on in front of him, and delicately slid between us and began to shove me backwards. "Put your ever-lovin' shirt on," he muttered to me beneath his breath. 

"Oh... yeah," I mumbled blearily and pulled it over my head absently, searching for a moment for the correct armholes.

"Agent Fawkes... are you feeling better now?" Agent cross piped up with a somewhat shaky voice as I fumbled with getting my shirt on.

"Me? Yeah, nothing out of the ordinary... a shot, some stitches..." I said somewhat muffled when I finally pulled down my shirt correctly.

"Typical QSM procedure," Bobby added.

"I'm so glad you're ok; I was worried that you might have gotten hurt when everyone jumped you, or when I, um, kinda flipped you over," she said sheepishly, biting her lip and nervously twining her fingers together in a way that I don't think I'd seen a girl act since Junior High.

"_You_ were worried about _me_? Wasn't I the one doing the assaulting and... um... other not nice stuff to you? 'Cause, I didn't mean to do any of that to you... and I was kinda crazy at the time, but that's not a good excuse..." I stammered, looking at the floor, rubbing the back of my head absently again in my wonderful nervous way that will probably result in a hideous bald spot right above the gland sooner or later.   
"I... ah... I just want to say I'm really, really, sorry, and I hope that you'll forgive me. I know I don't deserve it, and don't feel obliga--"

"I wasn't angry at you to begin with, but I accept your apology," she said gently. I looked up at her quickly, and she was smiling again, that wide, sincere, soft smile. I was surrounded by confusion.

"Huh?" I found myself hearing both Hobbes and I grunting.

"Danger comes with the job," she said, reciting back what all agents are told over and over again in their careers, but -- this is the female version of Eberts; none of us expect him to have to put up with being shot at or molested, or at least by his own colleagues. (Verbal abuse doesn't count!) "And, I did read the profiles that your Official sent on you, the gland, your colleagues; I can't blame you for something that's not in your control."

"You didn't read *all* of our profiles, didja?" Bobby asked delicately. 

While he took a few moments to find out just how much she knew about him and his various psychoses, I took in what had just been said to me. 

_Why the hell does this not bother her? Why does it bother me that she's not angry at me? I'm angry at me! Not in my control... never in my control..._

"Excuse me, does anyone actually need something in here, because I am trying to work," sounded the voice of Claire, who had snuck up behind us during our little exchange. She smiled with a 'I'm just being polite so you would hurry up and get the hell out of my laboratory' smile and waited for an answer. Bobby and I looked at each other, pointing fingers back and forth.

"I was just leaving..."

"I was followin', er, escorting Agent Cross..."

All eyes were suddenly on Agent Cross again, looking lost, obviously not used to the usual pattern of banter around our Agency.

"Oh... um.... .... ...! Oh, I came down to borrow a bottle of painkiller for Albert! He's taking it easy for the afternoon in the Official's office and I had volunteered to get him something and Mr. Borden said that Claire would have something, and... well, here I am... and you're Claire... and... yeah," and so she stopped suddenly, like a yappy dog toy when its batteries go out. 

Claire softened. "Ah, yes, that's very nice of you. I gave him some ibuprofen after I finished examining his strained shoulder, so I suppose I could entrust you with the remainder of my bottle," Claire informed Alma as she dug through her painkiller cabinet that's used a little too often in my opinion, usually involving me, or some action of mine. She shook the bottle, listening for the pitch of the rattle to gage how many pills were left.

"Actually," Alma began somewhat hesitantly, biting her lip again when Claire glanced back at her, "he told me that IB tends to irritate his stomach more than it should. I was thinking that Naprosyn or acetaminophen would be better options, depending on whichever we have a higher dose of on hand... that is... if you think that's okay."

"I would agree, actually," Claire said sounding mildly impressed with the Agent's knowledge of non-perscription painkillers. Bobby and I both watched intently as Agent Cross' face lit up into that grin of hers.

I began to move out into the hall, remembering that I had been on my way to sulk before my plans had been so rudely interrupted by casual interactions that took my attention away from my little pity party, and I was thinking of going back to that little shindig as soon as I could -- and alone, I might add. Well, as he likes to say, 'nothing gets past Bobby Hobbes,' and as puffed-up a statement that might be, it's often a true one. He followed me as far as the door, which he kept ajar by standing by the sliding part, and snagged my arm.

"Yo, Fawkes... there's something about that Alma Cross there," he told me, pointing to her as she talked with Claire. I glanced over quickly; she and Claire were laughing about something now. Well... at least someone was making Claire happy after my act as a black hole of positive emotions.

"Yeah," I muttered, trying to sound as uninterested as I could.

"She's just so... so... sweet. She's got that smile; man, what is it with that? Bobby nudged me again, fixated on the two lovely figures across the room from us. 

This time I couldn't act uninterested; I did have an opinion. "It doesn't belong here, that's what's with that. Too innocent, too sincere. This place'll only wear something like that away until it's gone forever."

Hobbes looked up at me, stuck in my far away stare at my caring Keeper and the forgiving Agent Cross. He stepped out of the doorjamb, which let the reflective metal door whoosh closed, cutting off my thought chain and vision. I was left with a blurry reflection of myself -- looking so tired -- and Hobbes with his his arms crossed and face set in a certain way. Crap. He was getting ready for a 'talking to' with his kid partner. My mind was running in circles trying to think of ways to get away from Bobby's guy-talk which I knew would result in cracking me more than Claire's gentle coaxing had. Jokes, jokes are good.

"I see you're trying to put the moves on Miss Smiles there. Not wastin' any time, are we?" I began, cocking a grin down at my short partner.

"There is competition in the air, my friend. Eberts, that smarmy mook of a partner she's got, and," he eyed me sharply, "I'm not gonna have to be beatin' your gangly hands offa her, am I?"

"No, no; I stopped being attracted to girls like that when I left Catholic school and found out why everyone was talking about the chicks that wore short skirts," I dismissed -- making particular care to be contrary to the advances of my less inhibited, maniacal side.

"Your loss, but hey, it'll save you the dissapointment of losing. After all, there isn't a lady out there who can resist the charms of Bobby Hobbes," he informed me with a poke in the chest.

"What about Monroe?"

"Not enough time with her, and I have more decency to be chattin' it up with her what with everything that's been happenin' with her kid."

"So, in other words, you've gotten nowhere?"

"Hey -- maybe I lack the motivation; after all, this is Alex "Five-Star Shrew" Monroe we're talkin' about," he told me, waggling his finger, and looking around to make sure that she wasn't about to pop up unannounced right when he was talking smack about her

"Right," I nodded, "So... how do you explain Claire not threatening to knock down your door every night to get to your body?"

"Like she's trying to knock down your door either--"

"Yeah, but I didn't just say that the ladies can't resist my charms."

"Shut it, Fawkes," he said, crossing his arms.

I smiled more, "And what about that chick at the bar last month who called you a toad?"

"Okay, buddy, this is now a closed subject."

"Hehe, I win."

"I said shut it!"

At this point I was pretty sure that I was going to be able to get away from Hobbes without any mishap -- which was good for me and for him. Heck, just playin' around with him for a minute ot two really raised my spirits in general; I was tempted to not even sulk while I spent some time in solitude. But... if there's another thing that I know about Bobby, it's that he can't just let something be, even when he should.

"Anyway..." he began as a transition, his voice dropping down into the 'indoor voice' that only comes out when he's thinking partcuarly hard about what he's about to say, "How you feeling now? Anything botherin' you about this last QSM episode... or, you know, about life in general?"

I rolled my eyes, not wanting to play along, "Are you trying to get at something here?"

"No, no... well... yeah, maybe, kinda. I mean, what's your partner to think when he finds your apartment a disaster zone and you lookin' like a wreck and hung over like a frat boy on a Friday morning?"

So he had noticed. Was I dumb enough to think that Bobby hadn't been concerned just because he hadn't pushed the issue earlier? I had hoped that at least he'd forget about it...

"And then to not check the 'countdown to mayhem' snake... I know you check that thing more often than I look over my shoulder for enemy snipers, and believe me, my friend, that's quite a frequency. I know you're not irresponsible unless there's something going on."

He had put a lot of emphasis on that last part, and he was being as honest with me as he could be. So what was I to do? What do you do when your best friend and one of the few people you'd trust with your life on a daily basis ­ someone like Bobby Hobbes -- is taking the time and effort to try and get through to you?

"Hobbes -- I don't wanna talk about it..." I said, forcing myself to turn away from him, clenching my eyes shut, a hairsbreadth from caving.

Yes, you cave when someone like Bobby Hobbes is trying to help you.

"Fawkes, look at me;" he grabbed my shoulder and pulled me around forcefully, something that Claire hadn't the physical power to exact on me earlier when she had tried a similar gesture. "Fawkes, you stubborn kid, look at me," he emphasized when I tried to keep my eyes on the ground. I looked up. "Good. There is something going on, but no one can help you -- not me, not Claire, not Eberts, not Alex -- if you don't talk."

A tears began to well up in my eyes despite how hard I was trying to keep them from coming. 

_Useless. Useless! A tool, a mere tool._

"You can't do a fucking thing! No one can!" I shouted, pain breaking through my face, and I pulled back violently. A startled, but listening Hobbes kept his eyes fixed on me. "You can't just make up a purpose for me. They tried that already and made me into nothing," I finished in hushed tones, feeling incredibly empty and worthless. 

"Whaa...?" Hobbes looked at me with intensity and confusion. "Fawkes, you're making no sense at all. Are you just gettin' all moody about the gland-thing again? C'mon, they'll figure out a way to get that lump of genetically engineered garbage outta your head soon enough. And for now, you got us to pal around with," he said way too casually for my state of mind.

_You can't see it, can you? You're supposed to be my friend, and you can't see how deep this goes? You can't tell that I'm defined by this gland, and without it I'm nothing. But I'm still nothing now. Just an accident waiting to happen; a liability on legs. A body for the trick up the Agency's sleeve_.

"Pfeh... moody? Think I can just shake it off, huh? Maybe pop a couple'a pills like you to make the bad things go away? Leave me alone, Hobbes," I said icily and turned to make my getaway down the hall. 

Of course, my remark had hit just below the belt, and Bobby, like any man, is sensitive there. "Damn it, Fawkes, would you quit being a child about this? Let someone help or shake it off," he tried grabbing my shoulder again, but this time I wasn't about to be stopped, so I shrugged my elbow back roughly and ended up catching Hobbes by suprise right in that one muscle below the chest that'll force all the air out of your lungs. He folded right over in pain, but more in the reflexive distress that comes from not being able to take in any air for a few, long seconds.

He looked up at me with hurt, angry eyes, and I suddenly realized that I had worked my magic a third time for the day.

_Crap..._

"Friends'll only put up with this self-pity shit so long, Darien..." he wheezed out before he began to hobble back towards the Keep. I was chiding myself internally over and over again, then looked up to see that Claire and Alma had been standing outside the Keep door just long enough to catch the juiciest bit of our little chat. 

_Damn damn damn._

"Bobby, are you okay?" the girls called out in unison, hurrying to him. Once again, I was the bad guy, so like the bad guy, I turned on my heel and walked out, letting the angry stares that I knew would be coming for me to burn into my back.

As I turned the corner, I brushed past a bruised and slinged Eberts, who eyed me warily while I tried to ignore him.

"Darien! The Official wants a word with you!" he called to me as I headed for the stairwell. 

"Tell the Fat Man that he can have a word with my ass," I shouted back as I slammed the access door behind me. If I'm going to burn bridges, hey, why not burn 'em all?

****  



End file.
